


Out Of My Mind

by Jellyfishtacos (orphan_account)



Category: teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: Derek is Damaged, I REGRET NOTHING, Isaac Lahey & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, M/M, Stiles is pretty messed, Tw for self-harm, and also probably a beta reader, but - Freeform, eh, he's just doing his best, honestly everyone's kind of fucked in the head, i should probably rate this as explicit, mildly offensive language, please i wrote this last week at like 3am all n one shot it's absolute shit I'm sorry, pls, your poor sleep-deprived author needs some rest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-19 18:12:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9453707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Jellyfishtacos
Summary: Stiles is fucked up.After the nogitsune, any and every semblance of sanity that he held onto pretty much vanished. It's a downward spiral for months before anyone notices, though. Suffice it to say that Stiles is good at putting on a Brave Face.Derek finds him one night, drunk off his ass at the old Hale house ruins. He'll do his best to fix him, but how can he help someone who doesn't want to be saved?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Serious TW for self-harm and depressing themes and suicidal thoughts and all that shit. If you've got any of the aforementioned triggers, I'd strongly advise staying the fuck awa from this story. 
> 
> I'd say "have fun", but it's pretty much a massive angst fest, so

Chapter One-

_The Loved and the Lost_

  
- _stiles_ -

I look in the mirror. A pair of red-rimmed, shadowy, haunted eyes stare back at me. I look half-dead, but in my defense, I haven’t slept in four days.

I can’t sleep.

Or, actually, I can.

I just don’t want to.

Because with sleep comes nightmares and panic attacks and screaming and anxiety.

With utter exhaustion comes pitying looks and heaviness and a feeling of apathy and that’s better.

It's always better because it's more bearable, at least.

I look down at my arms, my eyes watering as I lean against my bathroom door, sliding down it. They look awful. Wrecked. Scars crisscross horizontally along the length of both of them, some open and bleeding- new from today- and some healed and faint- up to six months old.

I wasn’t always like this.

Falling apart.

It’s been months since I got possessed, and I guess I didn’t handle it well. To be fair, I kind of committed mass murder against my will before I even graduated high school.

I guess that kind of takes its toll on a guy after a while.

  
~

  
When my dad lost my mom, he drank.

When I lost myself, so did I.

My dad was working the graveyard shift one night and suddenly, I couldn’t handle anything. Not the nightmares, not the panic attacks, not the memories- none of it. He’d left a bottle of whiskey out on the counter, so I decided to try some. You know, see if it helped me the way it helped him.

It did.

It never really helped for long, though.

But it helped in the moment, and that was all I needed.

It was the same thing with… Well, the other thing. I can’t even say the words in my mind, because that makes them real. It’s better to tug down my sleeves and duck my head.

As I make my way down the stairs, I realize that’s exactly what I need right now. A distraction. Something to help in the moment.

“Hey, dad, I’m going out for a bit,” I say, “I think I’ll drop by Scott’s. Maybe spend the night.”

He looks up from where he’s sitting at the kitchen table, files and papers scattered around him, “Okay, son. Be careful.”

I don’t think he’s willing to argue with me about leaving the house anymore. Really, he’s probably surprised that I can still get out of bed in the morning, all shit considered.

Frankly, I’m surprised, too.

I hop into my Jeep, pulling out of the driveway. I have some booze buried near the old Hale house. I don’t think Derek really goes by there anymore, so I’m not really worried about him finding it. I mean, I figure worst case scenario: he finds it and tosses it. Even if my scent is all over it, there isn’t much he can do to me. Except kill me.

Not that I would really mind that at this point, though.

I mean, I guess it’s kind of disrespectful to use his burned-down mansion (and his family’s tomb) as a booze stash location, but I’ve somehow lost the capacity for anything but apathy.

I pull up into the trees, hopping out and walking to the side of the house, near where me and Scott dug up half of Laura’s bisected body, before everything went to hell.

Huh.

In retrospect, I guess things were pretty fucked up then, too.

They’re just more fucked now.

I dig down about three inches into the soft dirt, pulling up a glass bottle full of amber liquid. I sit down, leaning against the rotten wood siding of a half-burned home. I pop the top off and take three gulps, sighing at the burning feeling in my throat and the buzzing in my head.

I close my eyes, tilting my head upwards so my tears run off my face into my hair.

I want to be done. I want it to stop. This… All of this… Everything I do?- it’s just… Temporary solutions to permanent problems. It’s all shit. Everything’s shit.

I stare up at the sky, the stars. The world is so big- so goddamn big- and I had to end up here. Of all fucking places, I’m living in the supernatural capital of the world, second to maybe, like, the fucking bermuda triangle. And people are dead because of it. Because I couldn’t save them. Because I’m weak. Because I couldn’t keep the nogitsune out of my mind.

I don’t even realize I’m sobbing until I feel my shirt getting wet. Then I hear them- sobs, loud and broken- coming from me.

I hiccup, trying to down the rest of the bottle in one gulp but I can’t and some spills on my shirt. Fuck.

I don’t really care, though.

I don’t really care about anything.

Not anymore.

That was my problem, I think.

Caring.

I cared too much and now the guilt is crushing me because it’s all my fault.

“Fuck,” I yank on my hair, clenching my jaw as the tears leak down my face. I’ve already had three panic attacks today and I’m exhausted. I can feel one coming on, but I try to shove it down.

I remember reading about Macbeth last year in English class. He cared too much, too. I mean, not about the same things- but analogies are almost never exact. And maybe this is a bad one, but I’m shitfaced and I couldn’t care less. Caring killed him, in the end. It killed both him and his wife. Not directly. I guess they kind of killed themselves. I mean, they killed people and the guilt killed them, so really, it was their fault in the end.

Just like it’s my fault now.

The spot won’t come out.

Goddamn right, it won’t.

I’ve tried to wash it away with blood and booze and tears but it’s still fucking there.

I’m not sure how long it’s been, but it’s dark and I’m almost done with the bottle. I’m about to get up when I realize that someone is calling my name.

“Stiles? Stiles, are you here?” It’s Derek, I think.

“No,” I’m aware that there are tears running down my face as I take one last gulp from the bottle in my hand. I hiccup, “I’m not anywhere.”

He’s there, suddenly, and instead of looking into the stars, I’m looking at a pair of shining hazel eyes. “Stiles…”

He sounds almost concerned. I laugh at that, the sound hysterical and almost… maniacal in my own ears. He looks at me like I’m insane, but maybe I am. I’m shitfaced, sobbing, and laughing like a madman.

Maybe I am a madman.

“Stiles, I’m taking you home.” He makes to pick me up, but I just blindly kick out at him, trying to get back.

“I don’t wanna go home,” I cry, “Please. I can’t go back. Not… Not like this.”  
  
“Okay,” He says, reaching out for my shoulder, “We can go to my loft then, yeah?”  
  
I don’t even have the physical or mental capacity to move, so I don’t jerk away when he gently takes the bottle from me, his movements cautious and slow, his eyes never leaving mine. He wraps my arm around his shoulder, his around my waist to try to hobble us back to my Jeep together. When my knees buckle, he swings me up to carry me bridal-style mid-stride. I bury my face in the crook of his neck, still crying. He wraps his arms even tighter around me.

I must’ve left my keys in the car because the next thing I know, I’m leaning limply against the inside of the shotgun side door, my forehead on the glass as Derek talks to me softly. “Stiles,” He says, his hand on my knee, “Stiles, what happened?”

“I felt like shit,” I say, because it was true at the time and it’s true now. “So I got shitfaced.” I trace shapes in the fog on the window, a sad smile on my face. “But, you know, before that, my mom died right in front of me, my dad became an alcoholic, my best friend got turned into a werewolf and then tried to kill himself, some of my friends died, I got possessed, some more of my friends died, I committed mass murder, and now…” I drop my hand, closing my eyes, “Now I don’t even know if I want to stay alive.”

I feel a jerk as Derek puts the gas to the floor. I look over at him, my bleary eyes taking in the fact that his pulse is hammering- I can see the veins on the side of his neck.

“Nobody knows about this, do they? How bad it really is?”

 _It_.

I want to ask him if he refuses to acknowledge exactly what _it_ is that’s wrong with me because he’s been there and knows what it’s like, or if he’s just asking because he really doean’t know much of anything about what’s going on with the pack anymore. Instead, though, I shrug. “Nobody cares enough. My dad’s busy with work and Scott doesn’t care about me anymore because he already lost Allison and he’s got Kiera and-” My voice catches as I punch the dashboard In front of me as hard as I can, pulling my hand back and examining my split knuckles with a clinical expression before muttering, “And everything just went to shit.”

“Stiles-”

“It did,” I say, slurring my words as my head throbs, “Everything is just shit and nobody cares because they’re all too busy to worry about poor, helpless, defenseless, weak, _human_ Stiles.” I spit the last part, the look on my face so full of self-loathing that it makes Derek look away.

“Are you going to kill me now?” I ask him, shuddering now, shaking and hiccuping.

The Jeep jerks to a stop and I would have hit my head on the dashboard if Derek didn’t throw his arm across my chest to hold me back. He turns his head, looking at me incredulously, “Why in the hell would I do that?”

“Because I hid my booze at your dead family’s house. Because I’m a killer. Because I just destroy every goddamn thing I touch. Because I’m a monster.” I look down at my hands, not sure why all this is coming out of my mouth, unhindered by my mind, but it more than likely has something to do with how drunk I am. “You should just kill me. I don’t think I’m brave enough to do it myself.”

His eyes are wider that I’ve ever seen them, and it almost looks like he’s going to cry. “Stiles, no. No, no, no. Nothing that happened was your fault. None of it. You understand that? All of this shit… It happened, and it sucks, but you’re not the one to blame. None of us are. We’re the good guys.”

“Are we, though?” I ask, because I really don’t know, “Are we really good? Where do we draw the line, Derek? When do we stop being us and start becoming them? Is it violence or self-defense? Murder or manslaughter? Where’s the line? I mean, does it even matter? No matter where it is, I think I crossed it a long time ago. I’m no hero.” I go limp, suddenly exhausted. “I’m sorry. I’m just…” I close my eyes, suddenly exhausted, “I’m just so tired. Of it all…”

“It’s okay,” Derek says tightly, in a voice that suggests it’s anything but, “Just… Go to sleep for now, okay, Stiles? Just go to sleep.”  
  
“Will you be here when I wake up?” I ask, my voice thick and my words slurring together from the booze and exhaustion.

His voice breaks as he says, “Always.”

 


	2. Friend, Please

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek's POV, as promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aight, here it is...

Chapter Two-  
Friend, please

- _derek_ -

He was on the ground when I found him. I’d gone back to the house to look at it one last time- me, Peter and Cora were thinking about rebuilding it, maybe even leaving gravestones for the members of my family that had died. We didn’t have any bodies, though, so we’d be burying empty coffins.

It was still better than nothing.

It was closure, really.

Closure, and as close to a proper burial as any of them could really get.

I was hit with the sudden stench of alcohol. Not anything refined, like wine.

Cheap booze.

My claws snapped out, a growl escaping my lips as I assumed the worst- or, at least, what I thought was the worst. Reality was much more awful. I’d figured it was just a bunch of teenagers, visiting the Hale Horror House, trying to poke around, looking for a good thrill. I was about to show them exactly what a thrill really was when I heard it.

Sobbing.

Loud, broken, defeated sobbing. The kind of crying you do when you're alone and you think no one will hear. The kind of tears you shed when you’ve well and truly given up hope of happiness.

I was curious at first, wondering who it was, until I smelled a softer, more muted scent.

Mint and sandalwood and fabric softener.

Stiles.

Suddenly, I wasn’t curious. I was terrified.

Stiles didn’t cry. He hardly even shed a tear, even after… after the nogitsune. He’s seemed better, especially recently. Happier. I mean, he hasn’t been sleeping, but there’s only so much he can handle, and at least he was on the road to recovery.

Well, that was what I thought.

I follow the smell, walking around the house to meet the saddest thing I’ve ever seen. Maybe the third most horrible. First, my house after it burned. Second, Laura’s bisected body; her dead eyes as I buried the only half of her body that I’d get to say goodbye to.

The third? It has to be Stiles, the way he is right now. He doesn’t look like himself. The circles around his eyes are even darker than usual and he looks deathly pale. I can tell that he’s completely wasted, probably almost to the point of alcohol poisoning, if the almost-drained booze bottle hanging loosely from his hand is any indication.

“Stiles? Stiles, is that you?” I choke out, my throat tightening when he looks at me. His face is tear-streaked and blotchy, and his hair is messy, but not in the carefully mussed way it usually is. And his eyes… Oh, god, his eyes. There’s not really another way to say it- they’re dead. Glazed over. He looks dazed, but still in pain. Wrecked. He’s nothing like the sweet, goofy, slightly spastic, sarcastic kid that the pack knows. That was Scott’s best friend. That I… That I fell for. It’s killing me to see him this way, but if I could get any closer, he could go all cornered-animal on me, and that’d just make this worse.

“No,” He slurs, his voice hoarse and cracked, like he’s been screaming. “No, I’m not here. ‘M not anywhere.”

He smells like death. I know he’s not dying- I would have felt it and so would Scott. I can feel the pain rolling off of him in waves, though, and it makes me feel almost like I’m going to throw up.

I can feel myself panicking, a sensation I haven’t felt since I found my house after… After what happened. I’m having a hard time approaching this logically, but I know I have to. For Stiles, I have to.

“Stiles…” I try to say, my voice fading out.

He looks at me, a mad glint in his eyes. He looks insane. He throws his head back, laughing and sobbing at the same time.

“Stiles, I have to take you home,” I say, steeling myself incase he tries to run. Or hurt me.

Or himself.

His eyes widen and he tries to get away, scrambling off, “No,” He mumbles through the tears, “Please. Please, I don’t want to go home. Not like this.”

“Okay. Okay,” I say, the smell of fear filling the air as I run a hand through my hair, “We can… We can go to the loft, yeah?”

I try to help him, but he just stumbles and falls, so I drop the bottle I took from him and just swing him up bridal-style. He left his keys in the car, so I put them in the ignition and drive.

He’s leaning against the window, his forehead against the cool glass, but he’s awake. I can tell by his heartbeat. “Stiles,” I say, my hand on his knee, “Stiles, what happened?”

“I felt like shit,” He says, biting his lip, “So I got shitfaced.” He traces shapes in the fog on the window, a sad smile on his face. “But, you know, before that, my mom died right in front of me, my dad became an alcoholic, my best friend got turned into a werewolf and then tried to kill himself, some of my friends died, I got possessed, some more of my friends died, I committed mass murder, and now…” He stops drawing, letting his hand fall into his lap, “Now I don’t even know if I want to stay alive.”

The Jeep jerks as I stomp on the gas pedal. I’m white-knuckling the steering wheel, because I knew that he had some psychological scars, but this… What he’s talking about… His mind is shredded. In tatters. To even be able to think about…. After everything- all the monsters we’ve killed and the people we’ve saved- all the near-death experiences- we might end up losing Stiles to himself, and that scares me more than anything we’ve faced so far.

  
“Nobody knows about this, do they?” I ask, my voice cracking because I know that none of them do, or he wouldn’t be in this situation because they would have gotten him help because nobody can deal with Stiles like this… He's the glue that holds us all together, but none of us ever stopped to wonder if holding us together was tearing him apart.

He shrugs, and I swallow, tightening my grip on the wheel. How can he be so… so flippant about this? So accepting?, “Nobody cares enough. My dad’s busy with work and Scott doesn’t care about me anymore because he already lost Allison and he’s got Kiera and-” His voice catches as he punches the dashboard as hard as he can, pulling his hand back and examining his split knuckles with a clinical expression before muttering, “And everything just went to shit.”

“Stiles-” I want to reach out to him, but for some reason, I don’t think that’s what he wants.

“It did,” He says, slurring his words, “Everything is just shit and nobody cares because they’re all too busy to worry about poor, helpless, defenseless, weak, human Stiles.” He spits the last part, the look on his face so full of self-loathing that it makes me look away.

“Are you going to kill me now?” He asks me, shuddering now, shaking and hiccuping.

I stomp on the brakes, throwing my arm against his chest to keep him from slamming against the dash as I say, “Why in the hell would I do that?”

“Because I hid my booze at your dead family’s house. Because I’m a killer. Because I just destroy every goddamn thing I touch. Because I’m a monster.” He looks down at his hands, “You should just kill me. I don’t think I’m brave enough to do it myself.”

My stomach drops out and I feel tears pricking the corners of my eyes, my panicking heartbeat throbbing in my throat, “Stiles, no. No, no, no. Nothing that happened was your fault. None of it. You understand that? All of this shit… It happened, and it sucks, but you’re not the one to blame. None of us are. We’re the good guys.”

“Are we, though?” He asks, his voice distant, “Are we really good? Where do we draw the line, Derek? When do we stop being us and start becoming them?” He goes limp, a sigh escaping his chapped lips as he closes his eyes, “I’m sorry. I’m just…” He shaked his head absently, “I’m just so tired. Of it all…”

“It’s okay,” I say, biting my lip, “Just… Go to sleep for now, okay, Stiles? Just go to sleep.”  
  
“Will you be here when I wake up?” He asks, his voice thick and his words slurring together from the booze and exhaustion.

I finally let the tears fall as I choke out a broken, “Always.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what do you guys think? I always appriciate comments, kudos and bookmarks and stuff, so thanks for reading!


	3. I'm Well Acquainted With Villians That Live In My Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More shit goes down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Derek sees some stuff that maybe Stiles would rather him not

 

-stiles-

It’s just a nightmare, I tell myself, my heart beating in my throat, Not real. Notrealnotrealnotreal-

A voice in my head hisses at me: Liar.

It’s harsh and loud, and I can feel the pressure behind my eyes as I struggle for breath.

I can see them all, everyone that I’ve lost, everyone that I couldn’t save, everyone that’s dead because of me. Allison, Heather, Donovan, Kyle, My mom… All of them, friends, enemies, family… Dead. Because I didn’t save them. My fault.   
  
Murderer.

I am.

Useless idiot.

I know.

You’re a liability, Stiles. A distraction. A danger.

I feel the tears on my face, running onto my shirt. “I know.”

The pack doesn’t need you.

“I know,” I say, breathing heavier now, “I know, I know, I know!”

Your father doesn’t need you.

Nobody needs you.

Nobody even wants you.

I curl up in the darkness, sobbing because it hurts- it fucking hurts like my heart is being torn out of my chest and I can’t breathe- I can’t breathe- “No. It’s not true. Get out of my head,” I rock back and forth, “Get out of my head, GET OUT OF MY HEAD!” I’m screaming now, and my throat hurts. I claw at my arms, trying to do anything- anything to make it stop. It aches and burns and suddenly it feels like there are hands holding me down.   
  
“Stiles!”

That voice. It sounds familiar. Not from my head… Not from this dream… But from where?

“Stiles!”

I struggle, trying to pull the hands off of me, but I can’t- I can’t- I’m stuck- I can feel myself hyperventilating, not even able to scream because I can’t get enough air in my lungs. “Let me go,” I try to say, the words coming out strangled and unintelligible.

“It’s a dream, Stiles! Wake up!”

Suddenly, the black is gone, and, along with it, the hands. I curl up into myself, a strangled sob escaping my mouth, my throat raw. I close my eyes tighter, desperately trying to control my breathing. .

“Oh, Stiles… No…” I hear a worried (almost sad?) voice say from behind me. The same voice that was telling me to wake up.

Derek?

It takes a few seconds before my pain-addled mind realizes it was him holding me down. Looking down at my arms, I can see why. I have four long, bleeding scratches on the inside of each forearm from where I clawed myself while I was asleep. I bite my lip, pulling my ruined arms to my chest, even though I know he’s already seen the damage. And I'm not talking about the eight scratches.

“Stiles…”

I look down at my arms, covered in crisscrossed scars and bleeding cuts, some healed- over six months old, and some new, not more than a few days, all self-inflicted. There has to be close to a hundred. What’s eight more? I bite my lip, knowing that, now that he knows, he could tell Scott. He could tell the whole pack. He could tell my dad. I feel my heart start to accelerate, and Derek must hear it, too, because he tries to reach out a hand to comfort me, to hold me...

I flinch away, and he pulls back, a pained expression on his face.

I feel thick numbness that usually comes after a panic attack start to seep through me as I sink into a haze, my body relaxing. I feel Derek get up from where he was sitting on the side of my bed. Maybe he’s leaving.

Good.

I stare at the wall, my eyes watery and burning. I’m just about to close my my eyes when someone sits on my bed again. It can’t be my dad- he’d at the station- has been almost every night this week. Warm hands grab me by my shoulders, pushing me into a sitting position as Derek sits in front of me, our legs tangled between us. I realize with a start that of course he didn’t leave- this is his loft. I watch silently as he takes my left arm and presses an alcohol-soaked cloth to it, taking my hand in his.

He must have come to check on me after he found me at the Hale house two days ago. I was hoping he’d forgotten about it, but no. I’d spent the night at his loft, pretty much asleep. I woke up in the middle of the next day at my house.

“I…” He frowns, his brow furrowed in confusion and concentration, “Stiles, I can’t take your pain away.”

I meet his eyes and then look away off to the side. “That’s because it doesn’t hurt.” I shrug.

“Stiles,” He says, his voice breaking before he can finish speaking. He sounds choked. I don’t look. “Look at me, Stiles.” He takes the cloth off of my arm, wrapping it with clean, white gauze. I feel his hand on my cheek, turning my face so I have to meet his eyes. His pupils are blown wide, his irises flashing from their usual hazel color to an icy blue and back again. “What the hell is going on with you?”

I tilt my head back, looking at my ceiling, tears running off the sides of my face into my hair. I hate this. I hate crying. I especially hate doing it in front of Derek. I hate this feeling, or lack of one. I just-

… I want it to stop.

“Why would you care?” I meant it to come out angry and scathing, but instead it just sounds broken.

“Everything we’ve been through,” He puts his hand on the side of my neck, letting me lean into his touch so he’s cradling my face, “And you still think I don’t care?”

“I don’t know.”

That’s the most true thing I’ve said all night, I think.

“Okay, well, I do know, okay, Stiles? I care because you’re you and after all this time, how could I not?” He takes his hand from my face so he can wrap my other arm and I can’t help but think that he’s acting decidedly un-Derek-y right now, especially as his eyes glow a cold, icy blue that is, quite possibly, the most transfixiatingly beautiful color I’ve ever seen in my life.

I chuckle, “That’s just it-” I pull my now-bandaged arms to my stomach and curl into the fetal position, still sitting up. Maybe if I curl tightly enough around myself, I won’t feel so hollow anymore. “I’m me. I’m- I’m so many kinds of horrible and awful and fucked up and… I’m a failure, Derek. I don’t…” I sniff, breaking his gaze and tucking my head into my arms.

  
He does something that I don’t really expect, then. He pulls me in for a hug. It’s awkward because neither of us is really in the ideal position to be hugging, but somehow, my legs are around his waist and his arm around me and we’re a tangled mess of limbs and conflicted feelings and I’m so sure that we look ridiculous that I giggle a little as I sob into his shoulder.

He pulls back, worry in his eyes, and I wonder if he thinks I’m hysterical. I wouldn’t be surprised if I am.

“Stiles?”

I hiccup, “Yeah, sourwolf?”

“You know you don’t have to…” He bites his lip like he’s trying to find the right words, “You don’t have to be alone. You don’t have to do this alone.” When I don’t respond, he continues, “You have Scott, and Lydia, and Liam and-” He swallows, “And you have me, too.”

I look into his eyes then, and I think I kind of understand why people say that eyes are the windows into the soul. I see myself in his eyes, and not the cheesy way that authors talk about in those awful romance novels- I mean I literally see my reflection in his eyes and jesus christmas, I look wrecked but maybe that’s because I am. I see the worry in the set of his mouth, the concern. Looking deeper, I see the sympathy, but not pity. Understanding, even, and suddenly, I feel relief flood my body and my mind because I don’t think that there’s any other person that could understand quite this way, and I’m glad it was Derek who found me, not my father or Lydia or even Scott because, yes, they have all felt loss, but they were never responsible for it.

Derek… After what happened with Kate, then, later, Jennifer, he feels the weight of the losses, but on top of that, he has to deal with the guilt of them being his fault and even though he didn’t actually kill them, if anyone knows what this is like, it has to be Derek.

So I try to swallow the guilt because I know that it won’t help me now. “I’m sorry.” I clutch the fabric of Derek’s shirt in my hands like I’ll fall off the face of the earth if I let go, and with the way I feel right now? I just might. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” I repeat over and over, like a mantra, the tears no longer falling, but the ache still there in my chest, dull and throbbing, hollowing me out.

I take a breath, then another, letting my heartbeat calm down. I’m dimly aware of Derek laying the both of us down and wrapping himself around me, pulling the blankets up around us both.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper one last time, closing my eyes and timing my breaths with his.

“You don’t have to be,” He replies, resting his chin on top of my head and rubbing my back in soothing circles.

Maybe I would have replied, but I was too far gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i cri everytiem

**Author's Note:**

> I'm planning to upload Derek's POV for this chapter next. What say you all? Thoughts? Comments? Questions? Concerns? Honestly, I appreciate it all. 
> 
> Thanks for reading :)


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